


Strain

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safewords, Size Difference, Size Kink, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Marco opens his mouth it’s to gasp involuntarily for air and not to put voice to the word he knows will make Gaou stop, the command that will remove the pressure from his throat with a single hissed sound." Gaou is rough and Marco likes the pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strain

Gaou has big hands.

Gaou has big _everything_. Marco knows this, can see it on a day-to-day basis in the breadth of Gaou’s shoulders and the flex of his muscles during practice. And he has enough experience of a more intimate nature to be familiar with the way Gaou’s hips shove his own thighs achingly wide apart, with the way it takes three of his own narrower fingers stretching his body open before he can even consider attempting to take the heavy heat of the other’s cock into him. But it’s his hands Marco’s thinking about right now, the way Gaou’s fingers are dipping slick between his thighs and -- more immediately -- the way his palm spans and weights the whole of Marco’s throat, like a collar that doesn’t need a buckle to be immoveable. The pressure is bearable right now -- Marco can still manage hissing inhales around the weight of Gaou’s hold on him, at least -- but he can feel the strength lying in wait, can feel his limbs starting to shake in anticipation well before the haze of oxygen deprivation threatens. Gaou ignores the tremors jolting through him as easily as he’s ignoring the heat of Marco’s cock leaking pre-come over his stomach; he’s single-minded in his focus, and right now that focus is centered on the slick drag of his fingers as he braces a thumb against Marco’s thigh and drives his middle finger into the other’s body. Marco’s eyes go wide, his body arching at the strain, but when he opens his mouth it’s to gasp involuntarily for air and not to put voice to the word he knows will make Gaou stop, the command that could remove the pressure from his throat and the ache from inside him with a single hissed sound.

It’s not like he wants _less_ , after all.

Gaou keeps going. His touch slides back, the stretch of his finger easing for barely a heartbeat before he thrusts in again, and Marco lets his body sag back to the support of the bed under him, blinking his vision back to clarity on Gaou’s expression as the other leans over him. Gaou’s not looking at Marco, not watching his face for any sign of discomfort; his chin is tipped down instead, his gaze tracking the motion of his hand as he pushes into the other with the grin that always makes Marco’s entire body flush hot regardless of the setting. The heat makes Marco groan this time, makes him whimper as his foot skids on the bed in an attempt for traction rendered futile by the brace of Gaou’s hand between his thighs holding him in place. Gaou tightens his hand without looking, a casual motion to brush aside the distraction of sound Marco’s throat is offering, and Marco chokes on the pressure, feeling his face flush hot with the sudden weight against his neck. His moan dies half-voiced, stalling as his foot slips wide on the bed, and Gaou thrusts his finger harder into him, his forehead creasing in concentration that says more about his intentions than words would.

Marco would speak if he could. _Yes_ , would be easiest and most honest, granting voice to the rush of his heartbeat rattling against the cage of his ribs. _No_ , maybe, for the show of it, to feel how pleading for mercy tastes when he knows Gaou won’t listen, when he knows Gaou will ignore everything Marco does except for the tone of the safeword Marco would rather die than give. But it doesn’t matter, because he can’t speak past the effort breathing is costing him, and Gaou is sliding his finger free with the rough haste that says what he intends even before he’s pressing his index finger alongside the middle and lining them up with Marco’s body. Marco’s lungs seize into a moment of panic, his body going tense in terrified anticipation, and then Gaou drives into him with no trace of gentleness, with no indication of care for the strain his movement inflicts on the other. Marco’s eyes go wide, his heels digging in deep against the give of the bed; his body is aching, he can feel himself stretched to the breaking point as he clenches involuntarily against the width of Gaou’s fingers, but Gaou just keeps pushing with the same single-minded focus, pursuing his ultimate goal of stretching Marco open enough to take the force of his cock instead of his touch. Marco’s thoughts are going dizzy, his focus flickering out against the low hum of static rising in the back of his head, and he needs air, he knows, needs to manage at least a few breaths if he’s to stay conscious for Gaou fucking him.

“Gaou,” he says, except that the word stalls in his throat, caught against the dam Gaou’s grip is making in his throat. It takes effort to remember how to use his hands, to work himself through the process of lifting the impossible weight of one to reach for Gaou’s skin; by the time Marco’s hand touches Gaou’s wrist his vision is fading, spiraling out of existence and towards soft-saturated blackness. The pressure of Gaou’s fingers thrusting into him feels very far away, like it’s travelling over a distance great enough to strip away the pain of the motion; all Marco can feel is the friction of it, the sound of skin catching on slick skin echoing in his ears as if it’s someone else being laid open for Gaou’s use. Marco’s hand lands on Gaou’s wrist, his fingers hover still for a moment; then he lifts two together, tapping rapidly at the inside of the other’s arm, and Gaou lets him go all at once, his hand pulling back and away from Marco’s throat as the stroke of his touch stalls half-out of Marco’s body. Marco rattles a breath, reflex continuing to function even if his conscious mind isn’t, and his vision hazes itself back into his awareness, the pale color of the ceiling striking his thoughts a moment before the chill of the sweat coating his skin sinks in. The pain comes after, the raw ache of Gaou’s touch seeping back into Marco’s body, and it’s then that he groans, wasting the air of an inhale to spill sound that comes out shadowed and dragging in his throat.

“Keep going,” he manages, shutting his eyes to the dark attention Gaou is giving him, unfolding his touch from Gaou’s arm so he can drape his wrist over his eyes instead, can press the ache of the weight against his shut eyes. Sweat slides from his elbow against the inside of his arm, trickling along his skin to splash over his collarbone. “I just need to breathe for a minute or two, I’d say.”

Gaou doesn’t ask if Marco’s sure. He never asks if Marco’s sure; he assumes the other is as certain of himself as he is, granting Marco the same personal responsibility he expects of himself. When he reaches out it’s for Marco’s chest instead of his throat, spreading the weight of his palm wide over the shift of the other’s ribcage to pin him down, and then he moves again, driving his fingers forward roughly enough that Marco would slide back over the bed were it not for that casual hand holding him still. His cock twitches, his throat moans, and he can feel his heart speeding onto the verge of panic in his chest, self-preservation making a valiant effort to win his attention in spite of the arousal flooding his body into trembling heat. Marco imagines he can feel his bones creaking, fantasizes that every breath is straining pressure against the cage around his heart and lungs until a too-sharp inhale would shatter the fragile resistance, would let Gaou’s fingers crush their shape into the span of his chest. That would be enough, he thinks, to bring him over the edge, just the feel of his body giving way to the totality of Gaou’s strength; he’s hard just thinking about it, can feel the surge of heat in his cock spill wet over the swollen head with the too-vivid daydream.

“Good,” Gaou says suddenly, the rumble of his words jolting Marco back into the sweat-slick heat of reality. His fingers slide back and away, the force of his touch evaporating to leave Marco empty and aching around the loss, and Marco’s sliding his arm away, opening his eyes and lifting his chin in the first sudden strain of terrified anticipation. Gaou doesn’t move the hand he has splayed over Marco’s chest; he just keeps pressing against it, holding the other immobile with some fraction of his strength so minimal it doesn’t even cause a distraction as he reaches for the heat of his cock instead. He’s flushed hard, hot since some past moment Marco didn’t notice; he makes a low sound in his throat as he strokes over himself, a rumble of satisfaction too hot to be coherent as he moves, as his hips tilt forward into a reflexive thrust towards the sensation of his grip. Even in his own hand his cock looks big; Marco can feel his entire body tense protest at the idea of the other fitting inside him, at the impossibility of taking so much when he could barely handle a pair of Gaou’s fingers. But Marco’s mouth is dragging into a smile, anticipation going frantic and reckless on his tongue, and when he parts his lips he moans instead of protesting, offering heat instead of the retreat of the safeword that would stop Gaou where he is to wait on Marco’s command.

“Wider,” Gaou tells him, sliding a knee forward to brace himself against the inside of Marco’s thigh. Marco can feel the flex of Gaou’s muscles as he steadies himself, as he leans in closer to the angle he needs for what’s to come. “I need more space.”

“I don’t think I can,” Marco says, still with his chin tilted down to look past the weight of Gaou’s hand on his chest to the heat of the other’s cock fitting between his legs. Gaou lets himself go, leaving himself to hang heavy and flushed dark in the space between them; Marco whimpers, uncertain whether it’s fear or arousal or both on his tongue. “My legs will only bend this far, I’d say.”

“I need more space,” Gaou tells him, as if Marco hadn’t spoken at all, and then his fingers are digging into Marco’s knee and dragging his legs open, and Marco is hissing into the first shudder of the stretch. His hips shift, his other leg running up hard against Gaou’s knee, and still Gaou’s pushing, spreading Marco’s thighs wide as if to lay the other bare for his appreciation. Marco’s breathing chokes, his lungs reaching for a gasp of pain he can’t manage under the weight of Gaou’s touch, and still Gaou is pushing like he intends to split Marco open just with his hands before he’s ever started fucking him. It’s not until Marco’s taut through every line of his body and trembling with the ache through his legs that Gaou stops pushing, that the force of Gaou’s hand becomes a brace instead of a shove.

“Better,” he says, purring satisfaction like he can’t even hear Marco’s gasps for air, and he rocks his weight forward, pressing the width of his hips into the open line he’s made of Marco’s thighs. Marco’s eyes go wide, his head straining back against the mattress as if to relieve the pressure, but Gaou’s settling into place like he doesn’t intend to move, the force of his weight against Marco more than enough to hold him still even when he lets his hold on the other’s knee go. Marco’s shaking, his whole body thrumming as helplessly as a tuning fork resonating with a held note, and then Gaou fits the head of his cock against Marco’s entrance and Marco’s heart speeds itself out of reason, fluttering frantically inside his chest as if to escape before the first thrust comes.

“Gaou,” Marco manages, gasping the other’s name past trembling lips, feeling the sound of it vibrate under his skin to ground out at the bottom of his spine, at the ache of heat drawing his balls up taut against the base of his cock. His hands are fisted on the bedsheets under him, his hold too desperate to ease for anything conscious; he can’t think, can’t find words, can’t do anything at all but shake with the instinct of a deer caught in the bright promise of oncoming death. “ _Gaou_.”

“Yeah,” Gaou says, and he’s grinning, the wide, white slash of teeth in his face that always makes him look like he’s moving in for the kill. His hand comes up, his fingers curl around the heat of Marco’s cock, and before Marco can more than shudder through the fear of too-much Gaou’s stroking over him, a rough slur of pressure that blows Marco’s eyes wide and curves his spine clear off the sheets fisted in his hands. Gaou chuckles, spilling sound like an earthquake humming through the air, and then he rocks his weight forward and starts to push against Marco’s entrance. Marco can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t escape; Gaou’s fingers are stroking over him, urging pleasure into his veins even as panic seizes his body tight, and he can’t break free even if he wanted to. The safeword is on the back of his tongue, lingering there like a promise, letting him last longer, push harder with the security of relief if he needs it, but the idea of voicing it is like poison, sending a chill of horror through Marco’s body worse even than the instinctive adrenaline curving taut through him. Gaou’s hand tightens on him, his hold dragging rough over the head of Marco’s cock, and Marco can feel orgasm on his mental horizon, bearing down on him with the tense awareness of what will happen when it hits. His heart is pounding, his breath turning to gasps, and then Gaou’s rough hand strokes against the length of his aching cock and Marco can feel everything in him go calm and still and quiet as tension turns to inevitability. He can still feel the strain in his throat as he breathes, can still hear the whine of effort on every exhale; there’s even the thud of his heart, the strain of effort along his arched back and spread-wide legs. But everything is distant, like it’s happening to someone else, like it’s a backdrop to his own oncoming pleasure, and then he gasps heat, and his body shudders into relief, and the head of Gaou’s cock slides past his entrance and into his body.

All the air leaves Marco’s lungs at once. He’s gasping, he thinks, or moaning, maybe, something helpless and overheated like a plea for gentleness he doesn’t truly want, but it doesn’t matter; Gaou’s fucking into him, the heat of his cock spreading Marco open with each inch, and Marco’s coming, every wave of sensation cresting through him clenching him tighter on the intrusion of Gaou inside him. There’s pulses of wet, too, come lacing his stomach and spilling over Gaou’s knuckles, but Marco barely notices; the heat in his cock is just part of the fever burning through him, a sidenote to the full-body convulsions that are straining him farther into slurring pleasure. Gaou’s groaning, pushing harder to work himself deeper, and Marco can’t see, can’t speak, can’t even attempt to stop the orgasm that has him in its grip. Time stretches long, seconds turning into hours of existence, until Marco feels like Gaou’s been taking that first stroke for days, like his entire lifetime can be summed up into the force of Gaou’s cock sliding into him. Finally there’s a pause, hesitation as Gaou’s hips come flush with Marco’s thighs, but Marco can’t catch his breath, can’t even attempt to calm himself before Gaou moves again. The second stroke is faster than the first, deeper, sliding farther than Marco knew he could take, and his cock aches at his stomach, attempting to harden again before the tension of his last orgasm has yet released him. It hurts, it’s too much, the overstimulation is an electric shock running up Marco’s spine and whiting out his consciousness, but he speaks anyway, gasping air and slurring “ _More_ ” into the fog that’s fallen over his vision. It’s hard to find the attention for speech, requires a strain Marco doesn’t think he could duplicate after the first, but he doesn’t have to repeat himself; Gaou moves without hesitation, reaching up to press the damp of his sticky hand over the rhythm of desperate breathing in Marco’s throat.

Marco lets everything go, after that. His legs are shaking with a rhythm he can’t restrain, his cock aching harder with every beat of his heart; his fingers have fallen slack on the sheets, the effort needed to keep the shape of fists failing him as his focus narrows to the need for air in his straining lungs. But Gaou’s hand is at his throat, bearing down harder with every stroke the other takes into him, and each thrust of Gaou’s hips drives a surge of heat into Marco that washes everything else away into unimportance. He wonders distantly if Gaou can feel how hard his heart is beating against the weight of the other’s hand, wonders if Gaou has noticed that he’s going hard again, that the sweat trickling over his skin is as much from the strain of too-much pleasure as it is from the ache in his thighs and the desperate hiss of air in his throat. He’s clenching tight every time Gaou leans forward, tensing involuntarily with each new surge of adrenaline as his ribs creak and his throat spasms, and then Gaou’s fingers tighten against his neck and when Marco opens his mouth wide there’s no air for him at all. There’s a rush of panic through him, reflexive fright and burning arousal in equal parts, and when he moans it’s soundless, stalled against Gaou’s fingers as his eyes roll back, as his body shakes under the weight of Gaou’s hand on his chest. Gaou’s moving faster, harder, his exhales taking on the low resonance of growls with each thrust, and Marco’s vision is going hazy again, his consciousness protesting the excessive strain on his body. He tries to moan again, his throat working against Gaou’s fingers, and Gaou grunts over him and thrusts forward hard, his cock pulsing into Marco’s body as he comes. Marco can feel each flood of heat, each twitch of pleasure rippling through Gaou’s length, and his body seizes into tension, his muscles locking themselves tight as his cock jerks and pleasure tears through him in an agony of sensation, friction and pain and electricity too much for him to stand. His vision fades out, the sound of Gaou’s breathing vanishes into the distance, and for a few minutes Marco doesn’t feel anything at all.

He comes to as Gaou is pulling out of him, the drag of the other’s softening cock inside him sensation enough to gasp reaction into his chest and blow his eyes wide on the first shudder of response. There’s come drying across his stomach and sticky at his thighs; he can feel it spilling out of him in the wake of Gaou’s cock, his body shuddering helpless reaction as Gaou moves away enough for Marco’s knees to fall to a more comfortable angle. There’s an ache at his chest, pain at his throat; when Marco lifts a trembling hand to his neck he can feel how swollen the skin is with the promise of the bruise to come.

“I liked that,” Gaou rumbles from the end of the bed. When Marco lifts his head he can see the other watching him, grinning with complete unselfconsciousness about what they’ve just done, about the evidence slick on Marco’s thighs and bruised into his skin. “You feel good when you’re coming around me.”

“Ah.” Marco lets his head drop back to the bed, smiles vaguely up at the ceiling while he presses his fingers to the ache at his throat. “If you say that kind of thing I’ll get embarrassed.”

“No you won’t,” Gaou says without a shred of doubt in his voice. “You like to hear it.”

Marco shuts his eyes and lets his smile go wider as he spreads his fingers wide and shifts his palm into a fragile imitation of the way Gaou’s hand fits around his throat.

He doesn’t try to deny it.


End file.
